Bedridden

There was a storm tonight. I skittered across the street in the fading light, dripping wet from the neighbor's pool, as the first drops spattered. By the time I emerged from the hot shower the night was booming and thrashing and rushing outside my window. By all accounts, the torrential rain and purple blinks of lightning should have thrilled me. I live for those reckless summer storms. But something about the erratic winds and the unpredictable sounds they gave the rain unsettled me, and I jumped at every crash of thunder as I folded laundry. I wanted to run into my parents' room and jump under their covers like I was six again.

And for reasons I couldn't give voice to, all I could think about was the people whose names I don't know. Who didn't have a room full of blankets, or the warm glow of lamps, or a roof and four walls to keep them dry. And I thought about the people who didn't have a place to spend the night, and I swallowed a lump in my throat and begged the Lord to protect them and just couldn't stand it that I didn't know where they were so I could pick them up and take them home.

By the time I went downstairs to watch Field of Dreams with my dad, the wind had stopped and the rain silently poured on, and my restless yearning faded. But now here I sit, tears in my eyes and the wildest unsettled feeling in my chest that I don't know what to do with. Geographically, I am surrounded by people who don't have a bed, and I travel through my life blindly and numbly, pushing away the twinge in my chest when one of them paces the intersection in front of the mall with their cardboard sign. And nothing is right about that.
Lord, there are so many injustices in this world and I feel so small because I can do little about many of them. But I just know that everyone should have a bed.

And I have one, and maybe that's the reason I can't fall asleep.

Contagious Storytelling

About a month ago, I got a text from my former small group leader at church asking if I could be a storyteller this week for the elementary school ministry. I knew, even then, that I'd be doing absolutely nothing, so I casually accepted. I didn't think much of it until I got home and was sent the script. After a week or two of being lulled into numbness and apathy from the hours I'd chained myself to the bed and couch watching TV, I was horrified as I scrolled through the lines and lines of narrative I'd have to memorize.

In the weeks leading up to the service, I sighed and repeatedly regretted letting myself get "roped into doing this" every time I glanced at the script. This week, I worked more than usual and was tired almost every afternoon and of course, didn't want to spend any time memorizing the thing. When I got up at 6am this morning (earlier than I'd woken voluntarily in probably a year), I regretted it once more. Never again, I told myself as I dragged myself bleary-eyed out of bed. I'll make up an excuse next time they ask me, I repeated in my head as I rifled through my mom's closet for a silk blouse. This is the only time I'm doing this, I thought as I drove to church in the bright morning sunlight. I got to church, smiled at everyone. Was given my microphone. Went to pace around lazily backstage. Stumbled through the first service and collapsed in a backstage lawn chair to doze between sermons, silently lamenting my inconvenience and the frigid temperatures backstage preventing me from restful sleep. Just this one time, I grumbled as I got the microphone tangled in my hair.

But when I got onstage for the 9:30 service, amidst the (much larger) crowd of energetic little ones, something mysterious happened. Despite my best attempts, I enjoyed myself. Those darn theater major instincts kicked in and that familiar high of performing rushed into my system, and suddenly, I delighted in making those fidgety, hand-raising little bodies be still and silent with my memorized lines about Daniel and King Nebuchadnezzar's mysterious dream. I loved how eagerly they shot their small hands in the air to answer my questions. I was swept into the captivating power of Scripture; I could feel God's overwhelming love for these little people and suddenly it was of the utmost importance that they realized what the message of selflessness and conviction meant for them.
Against all reason, I cared.

By the end of the last service, I had found my performance groove, once again swept into the story by my love of being onstage. My small group leader hugged me afterwards and asked if she could count on me to be the storyteller more this summer. I hesitated. Still, my selfish heart grumbled something about boring memorization and early mornings.

I can't say I had this beautiful moment of realization and suddenly, I loved the service of storytelling. I don't even know if I'll do it again. Honestly, a big part of me still doesn't want to. But that darn performance high was real, and the spontaneous urgency to be Jesus' vehicle into those kids' hearts was so strong.

How beautiful and stealthy of God to go, "Hey, that thing you're super not excited about? I'm gonna show you how I feel about it. I'm betting you'll like it."
God's love is no joke. It's contagious.

Neutral Gear

I like to think it's hard to surprise me. Part of this is because I've become so accustomed to things differing from my expectations in various ways. Whenever I'm about to experience a new place or situation and I catch myself dreaming up an idea of what it must be like in my head, I tell myself,
"Well, whatever it is, it's not like you think."
Then I show up and somehow, I was right. It was nothing like I expected, but the small acknowledgment beforehand adds some comfort to the uncertainty, turning it into an adventure of sorts.

Except what about when my worst fears come true, after all?

In the weeks leading up to summer break I pictured myself spending a lot of time alone in my room, isolated and bored from the utter friendlessness and mind-numbing suburbia of Stafford. And no matter how many lists of creative things to do alone I made, guess what? That's exactly what happened. I wasn't prepared for that reality.

I of all people can tell you that solitude does not mean loneliness. I thrive off of quiet walks, a good book, a noiseless night of Netflix and nail polish, some undisturbed ukulele (all of which apparently causes aimless alliteration), and some good old fashioned alone time. But willful solitude is one thing, and my current state of affairs is another entirely.

Make no mistake. I love my family. I love my new car. I love the people in my life that I have the ability to see in person right now.

But can I be honest?

Few times in my life have I felt this kind of lonely.

It's reminding me of the difference between like-minded and like-hearted people. If I looked hard enough, I'm sure I would have no shortage of like-minded people with which to spend my days. But I'm aching for someone who's like-hearted to just... even spend a few hours of conversation with, and the emptiness is filling me to the brim and draining the rest of me out, and I end my days tired even though I didn't do anything.
Every day is like trying to swim through syrup: I could exhaust myself and travel two inches, or I could just float numbly in the warmth and hope someone eventually pulls me out.

I....

I'm okay. But that's it. Every day is just okay. It terrifies me.